


A Unnamed Song

by OneofWebs



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Blood and Gore, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Fights, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Monsters, Nilfgaard, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, On the Run, Potions, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24059965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: After coming face to face with something Geralt was sure no living man was ever meant to see, there are unforeseen consequences. They are so unforeseen that Geralt will not know about them for years, and even then, he will not understand. Everything starts out as it always does: in a tavern with a very particular bard. What awaits Geralt after that is a turning point the likes of which he's never seen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posts the beginning of another multichap fic in hopes that I have the strength to actually finish this one. Throws confetti
> 
> what a wonderful world
> 
> hope y'all enjoy the first chapter of what I HOPE will be a dramatic story I j ust have to write more of it now. writing more is always the hard part.
> 
> Explicit rating/tags starts in chapter 2

According to the rumors in town, of which the proof or disproof of said rumor was being valued at extraordinarily little coin, there was some sort of monster that lurked in this cave and came out at night. It was about a cliché a story as Geralt had ever heard, but he needed the coin. He’d been paid up front for the trouble of just how rumor-y these rumors were. It was almost a waste of Geralt’s time, but this coin would get him something warm to eat and alcoholic to drink.

Upon entrance, as well stocked as he would even think to be for a mission of this low caliber, Geralt realized this was not a cafe at all. At some point, it had been a mine. It had been long abandoned, but there were still rotting tools and supplies boxes near the entrance to mark it for what it was. There were old lanterns scattered about that might have been helpful if Geralt hadn’t come prepared. Though he was traversing the once mine in the middle of the day, he hadn’t pretended to believe it would be light within. He had his own light source.

There was a strange lack of _monsters_ in the cavern, which had been rumored to house several of them. Or at least one large one. Something worthy of a Witcher’s time, as they had _paid_ Geralt. He was expecting to enter the mine and find rotting corpses animated back to life with the way the townspeople spoke. Instead, he was met with slightly over-sized rats and zealous snakes. Nothing of which he even bothered with, as they were easy enough to just step around. Still, he forged deeper.

Something must have happened in the mine. Mines didn’t empty out in this manner unless something happened. The deeper Geralt went, the more he believed this rumor was true. All over the ground were strewn old pickaxes and shovels, as if they’d been left in a hurry. In a panic, even. If there was a monster that had found its way down here, the miners would have fled for their lives. According to the townspeople, that monster was coming back _out_ to wreak havoc on local farmers.

But if the monster had taken all that effort to get down into the mine, it was probably something that _liked_ the mine. With the over-sized rats and snakes living down here, it would plenty of food. There were mushrooms and moss growing, too. The monster would have no reason to venture out of the mine, especially once all signs of people had gone. Geralt had seen more than a few monsters that preferred solitude; he even hesitated to call them monsters. They were just creatures looking to live as peacefully as the moose and the elk did.

Something about _this_ particular rumor was strange. The more facts Geralt uncovered, the more it didn’t make any sense. The monster couldn’t have burrowed its way down here from the outside, like the rumors seemed to suggest. The debris left from the mining equipment wouldn’t have been thrown the way it was. It was like they were running _from_ something, not as if they’d been trying to get past something barreling the opposite direction. Geralt stopped at the first thing that really surprised him enough.

It was a sword. That certainly didn’t fit into old mining equipment. That, and the blade was worn far beyond its years, as if it’d been in the mine before the people had begun to mine. Geralt bent down to look at it, running his fingers across the blade.

“It’s dull,” he muttered, frowning. It couldn’t have belonged to one of the old miners. Why would they be carrying swords into mines?

Geralt stood back up and moved forward. As the tunnel began to narrow, he braced himself along the walls. They were damp, as if weather could reach this deep into the mine. Geralt knew better. There was no way that there would be weather this deep in the mine unless it was coming from deeper within the mine. All Geralt could do was continue walking until he found what he was searching for. Something at the other end of the mine.

The deeper he went, the more it was clear that they dug something up. It wasn’t that a monster had taken refuge in the mine and chased away the workers, it was that the workers found something they weren’t supposed to find. They’d dug too deep. Geralt didn’t know how far he’d gone or how long he’d been within the mine, but he knew he’d gone far. They should have dug the other way; whatever it was they’d found had left bones in its wake. There hadn’t been bones at the other end of the mine.

Much to Geralt’s assumption, they were mostly the bones of animals that were unlucky enough to happen upon whatever was down here. There were human remains, too, but they looked much older than the animal bones. Some of the animal bones look freshly cleaned, freshly broken in half by sharp teeth. Geralt reached for his sword, gripping yet not drawing. He wasn’t quite sure what he was about to wander upon, but he could feel the sudden draft of a much larger cavern down in these mines.

The bones led straight to the half-collapsed opening in the wall. Some unlucky miner had died in the collapse, when they pressed too deep and the wall gave out from the pressure of whatever tool they’d been using. It was hardly what Geralt would call a trustworthy structure, but he stepped through it anyway. If it collapsed, the very existence of this cavern proved there would be another way out. He would have no idea where he was at that time, but it was an exit strategy, if he needed it.

Beyond the half-collapsed opening was something the likes of which Geralt had never seen, and that was more shocking than any of it had been. He’d seen everything. He’d traveled from the north to the south, and he’d seen _everything_. This was something else. This looked like a crypt buried deep, deep underground, as if it had been here before the dawn of men had ever come. Geralt had nothing to prove that, but he couldn’t help the feeling that overtook him as he entered.

This was something that no man, woman, child, or animal was ever meant to find. The only thing that was ever meant to tread down here were the dead and the fungus that could survive. The miners broke that sacred covenant when they’d broken through the wall, and now, whatever air of the dead had been allowed to leak up through the opening was plaguing the village with dead crops, livestock, and babies.

Geralt stepped down from the rocky slope of the cavern side as carefully as he could. There were loose rocks and dead roots of long-gone trees embedded in the ground. Anything could send him tumbling down to the bottom of the crypt, and he would never find his way back up. The crypt ran deep, enough stories to fill a veritable tower had it gone above ground. It was large enough to have its own wind, with strung gusts of a near cyclone spinning about in the middle. Down, at the bottom of the cavern, there was an eerie glow.

That was what Geralt assumed to be the source of whatever ailment the people suffered. He’d been in enough deep, frightening caverns to know the glowing thing was usually the problem. There were only very particular types of mushrooms, bugs, and algae that glowed naturally, and none of that was present in this cave. None of it could live here. As far as Geralt could tell, there was nothing that lived here. The shuffling he heard was easily mistaken for wind and shifting rock, dirt, or other.

But there was a smell that Geralt knew. It wasn’t the smell of dead rot locked in crypts. It was the smell of live rot, walking around in search of _more_. An endless, unsatisfiable hunger. If a ghoul had meant to end Geralt’s life today, it would be sorely disappointed as he drew his sword and turned back on his heel, striking the monster down without fail. His heart hadn’t even skipped a beat. The ghoul was not alone. In its dying rattle, the whole of the crypt seemed to wake.

The shuffling turned into a loud, shrill shriek as ghouls rose from their makeshift beds and came to join the fray. If this was what the townspeople were talking about, not a _one_ of them had mentioned anything similar. What they were talking about sounded like one large monster—but this was a crypt. As old as time, it seemed, but frozen just so that any of the burial grounds these creatures could dig their way into would be fresh and ripe for the hearty meal. Geralt should have known what he was walking into, but he’d never seen a thing like this.

He was quick to down a potion before the ghouls got too close. In the rush of it, his eyes bled black into his skin and everything became sharper, louder, and putrid. He struck with all the speed he could muster—one ghoul, two of them, heads flying and bodies splitting down the middle. He could hear them clambering up walls and around the stone graves—fresh meat, fresh meat. They would overwhelm him in numbers before they overwhelmed him with anything else. He couldn’t cut them down faster than they seemed to crawl from the walls.

It was endless. No matter what he did, how he slashed his sword, or where he dashed—there were ghouls. They fell as easily as they appeared, like dust in the wind. Things that weren’t even there, but still, blood dripped from his sword as he struck and struck again. Geralt could feel his _heart_ beating in his ears, an unfamiliar feeling. He ignored it. He fought. He struck ghoul from ghoul, head and limb from body. They kept coming, pushing him farther away from his escape and closer, closer to the spiraling dirt-way down.

Geralt tripped when the ground beneath him started to lower. He tumbled back into the stone wall, his head hitting and splintering with blood in his hair. He was dazed, but he pushed himself back up and fought. The path went down; he had to go down. There was no way to go up, through the hoard of ghouls that came for him. It was like the dead themselves had turned monstrous and risen to face him, here, to push him _down_. It was the only way to go. Geralt went down.

The ghouls followed, and he struck them down as fast as they came, panting and struggling through every breath. Another ghoul, another splintered body and broken limbs and bloodied sword. Just like dust, though—Geralt never heard the thump of the bodies falling down the spiral dirt-way. They were just gone, replaced and replaced and replaced; Geralt _fought_. He’d never seen so many ghouls in one place; never so many that seemed to crawl from empty graves and right out of the walls like they were growing, engorged worms with an unending need to feed.

They pushed him down, down, down—throwing themselves on his sword to keep him moving down. His heart was pounding, sweat pouring down his face; everything was stuffy and hard and hot. The spiral way down just kept going and going, and the farther it went, the more ghouls forced him there. Geralt should have tried to find the high ground, an advantage in battle, but all he could think about was staying _alive_. He could fight forever, if he needed to, but that didn’t mean he want to.

Forever was starting to sound like his fate. Stuck, forever, in a spiraling dirt pit with a bunch of putrid smelling monsters that were more eager to die than they were to live. Pushing, pushing, pushing until Geralt had nowhere to go but down, falling and stumbling over himself. These monsters struck true and fast with claws and teeth that pierced through his armor and his skin like they meant to crunch right through his bones where he stood. Even if they wanted him to meet the bottom of the pit, there was no rule in saying he had to do unscathed. For Geralt knew, his life was not a part of the equation.

It might have been easier to run, but they would only follow. They would overwhelm him before he reached the bottom, bury him in their sweat soaked rank and molding teeth. It was no way to die. If he were to die, he would hope for some manner of a heroic death where he died fighting a monster none other could face. This was a monster no one ever had to face; it was perfectly contained in the walls of its crypt until Geralt had been stupid enough to disturb it. Now, it was angry.

The light was glowing brighter, pulsing in the dead air around Geralt and the ghouls. The closer he got, the farther down the dirt-way, the _brighter_. It was suffocating, oppressive. Blinding. Pulling him down farther, farther, farther until the dirt turned to stone and Geralt tripped over the crack between, falling back. He shuffled, pushing himself by the scruff of his boots to get away from the coming hoard of ghouls—and they stopped. All at once, they stopped.

A hoard large enough to _kill him_ left Geralt alone, frozen and staring. They wouldn’t step past the dirt. Where the floor turned to stone, where the glowing thing was, the ghouls wouldn’t come. It gave Geralt a moment to catch his breath, to fight past the pounding of his heart and the ringing in his ears and gather himself. He felt around the floor for his sword, blindly, and grabbed it when he felt the leather wrapped hilt in his hand. He stood, shakily, feeling more tired than he rightfully ever should.

He was a Witcher. His abilities were beyond human compare and comprehension. He _wasn_ _’t_ human. For the moment, though, he almost felt like he was. He stumbled into the wall, having a hard time finding his bearings and his strength. He couldn’t get his breath under control. Down here, with this _light_ , Geralt figured was the closest he would ever feel to being human. He didn’t mind it, save for the fact that it left him exhausted and trembling with anxiety. How would he ever get out of here if he couldn’t even lift his sword?

As long as the ghouls wouldn’t pass through to the glow, then Geralt had time to rest. He had time to investigate what he believed was causing the menace above ground. Something old and something very, very unhappy. He’d never seen anything like it, but he didn’t dare approach it. From the wall, where he pressed himself with an unchecked fear, he could see well enough what it was to know approaching it would be stupid and dangerous.

It looked like a headstone. It rose up out of the ground like the ground was a graveyard and it was the only grave. There were letterings etched into the stone, a language that Geralt had never seen before. He couldn’t read it; he wouldn’t even try. Instead, he just let his eyes close. He tried to listen past his labored breathing, past the wind. Something lived in the wind, and he could hear it whispering words he didn’t know. They _felt_ like something; where he couldn’t understand the sounds, he could understand the feeling.

Something regretful. Something merciful. Something that had every intention to kill anything that might enter but was stayed by something Geralt couldn’t understand. The feeling died away, and it left him feeling empty. Like he’d lost something. Whatever this thing was had lost something or knew that he’d lost something. It might have even been pity or sympathy Geralt felt, but he couldn’t place it. He couldn’t understand.

Geralt was a Witcher. He’d lost a great deal of things in return for what he’d gained. He was an alpha who would never get to be an alpha; the trials had taken that from him. As much as he may have ever grown up enjoying company and friends, people despised him simply for what he was. With his hair and the color of his eyes, there was no way to hide what he was, either. He’d lost the ability to blend in. In return for it, he’d gained an everlasting life and a whole plethora abilities. As old as he was, and he still couldn’t quite tell if the tradeoff was worth it.

The being in the stone didn’t seem to know either; at least, that’s what Geralt could tell from the whispers in his ear and the way they left him slightly uncomfortable. All he was doing was staring at a stone, and it felt like it stared back. Like it _knew_ everything about him, picked him apart piece by tiny piece until he was all laid out in sorted parts, easy to dissect and understand. Geralt had never had much fun trying to understand himself or others, but this rock knew it all in the span of moments. A lifetime fell out before it, and the winds began to pick up.

Geralt braced himself against the wall, digging his fingers into the dirt like _dirt_ could keep him from collapsing when the wind turned to a gale force’s gust. It sent him flying to the ground, rocks and dirt splitting from the walls with the wind, the wind, the wind. It was howling, raging in Geralt’s ears. The light over the stone only got brighter, brighter, brighter—more oppressive, like it was stealing the breath right from Geralt’s lungs as he gasped and struggled for purchase.

“What do you want?!” Geralt screamed.

The gales screamed louder, whistled as they shot through all the empty crevices and cracks in the cavern. The floor began to shake. The light began to grow. Everything tilted, like space and time died right where the stone stood, only to become something else, outside of it.

The stone meant to start a war, right here, beneath the ground. A full-fledged war.

With the final crest of the light, it began to splinter and shake in the air until it broke out in tendrils. It struck the ground, cracked the stone, and broke through the walls like a tree destroying the path for its roots. Geralt _shrieked_ when one of those bolts came right for him. Then another, and another, until he’d been struck from head to toe and his skin was tingling with the pain. He groaned, rolling to the side, trying to crawl forward—to escape.

And it all stopped.

Just like that, there was nothing. Geralt was left, huddled in the floor in an untouched cavern, as if nothing had happened. He waited until he was _sure_ , but then, Geralt uncovered his head and pushed himself up. His heart wasn’t pounding, any longer. He felt like himself, a broken Witcher and a broken man. As he strained against the ache in his arms, he rose up high enough to see everything. The floor was unbroken, and the cavern was empty of ghouls—dead or alive. The stone in the middle of the spiraled dirt was just a stone with strange lettering. It was nothing else.

It was like none of it had ever happened, save that Geralt was sure that it had. He could still feel the pain of the lightning strikes. His entire body protested as he pulled himself to his feet. All he wanted was something warm to eat and something to drink. He’d drink a whole tavern dry if it might help him forget this. This was something he never wanted to remember. The coin he’d been given was not enough to cover this. No amount of coin would ever be enough to make this _worth it._

The walk out of the cavern was painfully simple. All Geralt had to do was stand, sheath his sword, and trudge back up the spiraled dirt. There was no evidence that he’d ever been here, as if time itself had been reset. The only new sign of his presence was the footprints he left in the dirt. Whatever had just happened had to be what was keeping the partially collapsed entrance from the mine open. Time would have crushed it closed, long ago, but it was still open. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

Geralt walked right back through the way he’d come, right back to where he’d seen the bones. There were no bones, this time. Just the rotting, abandoned mine. They must have left it when they discovered the crypt. It wouldn’t have been in an overt panic, but more of a slow, ease away in a manner of respect for the dead they hoped to not disturb. The dead had not been disturbed; whatever else it was that dwelt in that cavern had been, and it wasn’t happy.

Yet, it would never face the sight of people, again. As Geralt eased his way back up through the mine, he felt a rumbling. It was a soft rumbling, nothing stronger than a quick tumble. It was over in an instant, not even long enough to count as a quake. When he looked back, whatever light and wind that had come from the cavern had died. The opening had finally collapsed, so none other would enter that cursed place. The fact that Geralt had must have just been a mistake of bad timing.

His whole body ached, and he would blame it on bad timing. Bad luck. Anything he could think of to not have to wonder about what had actually taken place. It was easier not to think about it. Instead, Geralt crawled right out of the mine to find everything the same as he’d left it, just later. He didn’t know how much later, and he didn’t much care. All he knew was that Roach was still there, waiting for him; that was all that mattered. Roach had just enough dried meat stocked in his bags that Geralt could grab something quick on his way back to town.

Geralt took the ride slow. In reality, he had no reason to return. He had his money. As far as he was concerned, with the stone now sleeping, the town’s problems would disappear. Still, it was the closest town. He needed _real_ food, and he didn’t have the energy to hunt, anymore. Not after that— _whatever_ had just happened. While the town hadn’t been friendly before, maybe they would change their tune, having had their lives saved.

Upon arrival in town, Geralt went straight to the tavern. They would have food and a place to stay for the night; if they didn’t let him stay, then he’d be on his way. He needed the food. He hoped they would be kind enough to reward his hard work with _food_ , at the very least. His stomach was growling, aching like he hadn’t eaten in _days_. He stopped near the tavern and dismounted Roach, taking time to tie the reigns around a tree not too far from the dirt road of town.

He stepped towards the dirt road, towards the tavern and towards his food. He meant to go straight for it, but things were never exactly lined up for Geralt in proper order. While he would have liked to get food and drink before speaking to _anyone_ , he happened right by the man who had given him the initial gold and rumor.

“Hey—you,” the man said, approaching Geralt like they were old friends. “We thought you died down there.”

“What?” Geralt rasped.

“You’ve been gone for nearly a week,” the man said. “We were worried we wasted our coin on you, but nothing’s happened so far.” He shrugged.

Geralt frowned. “Happy to help,” he muttered.

“We were able to scrape together a bit more coin if you ever came back. Guess you did so, thanks for the help.” The man dug around in his pocket for a few extra coins and dropped them in Geralt’s hand. “I’m sure they’ve got a room for you, too.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week,” came Geralt’s grumble. He pocketed the coins and walked around the man without further conversation.

He made his way around to the front of the tavern, happy that at least _something_ was going his way, right up until he pushed his way through the door. The first thing he heard was the shrill playing of the lute followed by one obnoxious voice he would know anywhere. Jaskier was playing in the tavern. Geralt had been down fighting some stone int he ground for so long that _Jaskier_ was in town. It wouldn’t have been a problem, easy enough to ignore, except something was off.

There was something about the _smell_ that had Geralt’s attention just as much as it had half of the room’s attention. Jaskier was playing in a room full of alphas, and something was off. Geralt just couldn’t quite place it. All he knew was that he liked it when he never had before, and he _didn_ _’t_ like that others had the same idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is gratuitous porn I hope you enjoy it

Geralt’s hunger was too great to ignore. Apparently, he’d been in that mine on exactly one potion for nearly a _week_. He could rightfully eat the entire tavern empty, but he didn’t have the coin for that. He ordered worth what he was willing to spend, then found himself a table in the corner of the tavern. As much as the _smell_ and a whole group of interested alphas bothered him, his hunger was greater. Geralt had, in some sense of doing an instinctual duty, made sure Jaskier had seen him.

Jaskier hadn’t stopped the song immediately, but Geralt had seen the look on his face. He was almost relieved to know Geralt was in the same building, in the same area. Something was going on; Geralt could tell. He just couldn’t quite place what the issue is. If Jaskier had an issue, it was only a matter of time until Geralt heard about it. Ordering his food first didn’t seem like such a big imposition. Jaskier had a song to finish, anyway. The only time he ever stopped his performance was when the audience forced it.

A whole table full of food came delivered to Geralt just as the song finished. Jaskier took only a moment to gather up his coin and bow, to boast out his performance. It had been a moment too long; the moment he started his tread into the crowd, one of those interested alphas stood up and grabbed Jaskier by the arm with such a force that Jaskier stumbled and nearly dropped his lute. The alpha might have said something, might have moved in close to _do_ something—Geralt didn’t know.

All Geralt knew was that he was moving on instinct alone. There had been no conscious decision made to have him tearing across the room, sword suddenly drawn and at another man’s neck. The alpha went still, but his grip on Jaskier didn’t loosen. Jaskier could struggle all he wanted, but this man had a powerful grip.

“Release the bard,” Geralt growled, “before I make you.”

“Big words for a Witcher,” the alpha responded.

At the sudden press of the sharp end of a blade, the alpha retreated. He could talk all he wanted, but Geralt had the advantage. With one wrong movement, Geralt could slice the man’s neck right open and leave him dead on the tavern floor. No one would stop him. Everyone in the tavern had witnessed what happened—to them, it might have looked like an alpha was making a move on another alpha’s property. Geralt was in the right, here, and he knew it. The alpha knew it, so he disappeared off into the crowd.

Jaskier released a breath that he hadn’t known he was holding, clutching his lute by the neck. Even if Geralt hadn’t precisely gestured that he followed, Jaskier went after him, anyway. Geralt felt safe; Jaskier needed to talk to him, anyway. It was lucky their paths crossed. Jaskier never expected to see Geralt where he found him, and he certainly hadn’t expected to see Geralt at such a convenient time. He followed Geralt over to his corner table and sat down opposite him. The first thing Jaskier noticed was the food.

“I didn’t know you ate,” came his first quip.

“What do you want?” Geralt responded. He didn’t wait for an answer before he started to eat, and he certainly didn’t invite Jaskier share the meal with him. This was Geralt’s—enough food to make up for the fact that it’d apparently been a week. The shock of that would not die down.

“I was really hoping to find you, actually. I’ve run into a bit of a problem, you see. I didn’t really have much of a plan for dealing with it on my own. It might rather be a bit tedious to handle on my own, the more I think on it. Especially with what just happened.” Jaskier was rambling, chuckling nervously. He was still clutching his lute close to his chest, hunched over like something was wrong.

Geralt couldn’t quite place it. He’d never grown up with much sense for how being an alpha worked; the trials had shut most of it off. He didn’t need things distracting him. All of the sudden, though, he could smell things he’d never smelled before. Jaskier smelled very, very specifically like something that Geralt knew he’d smelled before, but he’d never really tuned in to what it meant. There was no _point._ It was like learning how to work through the world all over again.

“Can you get to the point?” Geralt grumbled.

“Right, right. Well—” Jaskier leaned against the table, his hands folded around his lute in his lap. “You—you know that I’m an omega, right?”

“Vaguely.”

Jaskier gave a weak smile. “Traveling and omegas don’t really go well together. That’s what I’ve always been told. I’ve never run into a problem I couldn’t handle, but something’s come up that I couldn’t quite work around.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. Jaskier still hadn’t gotten to the point.

“I have this—contact, I suppose. She works with herbs and potions and things—anyway. She supplies me with things to _help_. They mask my scent and basically turn off my heat. It’s quite nice, actually. The only problem is she and I weren’t able to meet up. It’s uh, usually not a problem to reschedule, but we were running late as it is—”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt snapped. “Will you just tell me what the problem is?”

Jaskier gulped. “I’m about to go into heat, and I need help.”

Geralt nearly choked on his ale.

“I know it’s not the sort of job you usually take, but I _need_ help. There’s nowhere that I can go where I’ll be _safe_ —” Jaskier stopped short, glancing back over his shoulder. Whatever it was that had just happened, Geralt could smell it took. Jaskier wasn’t just about to go into heat. He was already there.

“And you didn’t think about this before? You were just going to let whatever happened happen?” Geralt argued.

“What choice do I have?” Jaskier hissed. “There’s nowhere for me to _go_. Whether it happened in a town or out somewhere on the roads, someone would find me, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. At least with you—I’ll be safe, won’t I? You wouldn’t, I mean—and it’s not like you can leave me an unexpected surprise, either.”

Geralt snorted. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“If you can’t, I won’t hold it against you.” Jaskier’s voice was weak, and it tugged at Geralt’s chest in ways he didn’t quite like.

There wasn’t a choice here. While Geralt would never openly admit that they were friends—they _were_ friends. And Jaskier was unfortunately right. Omegas didn’t have any status or rights in the world. If he went into heat, any alpha within a scent radius would have free reign to do whatever they wanted. An image passed of Jaskier, panting and wet in an alley way, being passed around and forced onto his knees by a group of alphas who’d found his hiding place.

Geralt waved that thought away, immediately. There was something that he could do to keep Jaskier safe, and no complaints from the side of him that wanted to be left alone would be enough to allow that to happen. It wasn’t as if Jaskier was asking for a personal bodyguard or something that included work. He was asking Geralt to share his heat—there were worse ways to spend time that Geralt could think of. Having sex was certainly a pass time of his, though he tended to stick to prostitutes. This would be different.

“I’ll help you,” Geralt said.

Jaskier nearly whimpered right there. “Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt tried to ignore the fact that that sound alone had made him _feel_ something. He’d never had any hormonal urges or instinctual needs before; why now? It didn’t matter. Geralt pushed himself up from his chair and ordered Jaskier to stay right where he was and to look at no one. If Geralt could smell his heat, then every alpha in the town had probably smelled it hours ago. There wouldn’t be time to get somewhere private, but he could probably strike a deal with the tavern owner.

Their town had been saved because of Geralt’s hard work. If he already had a room just waiting for him, then he hoped he could pay for a bit more. He needed a room with a lock on the door, and he needed the key. He’d return it—the tavern owner could trust that Geralt wouldn’t run off with their stupid iron key. He had no reason to keep it. But he had an omega who was about to go into heat, and the last thing he wanted to start was a fight.

Of course, he lied. He told the owner that Jaskier was _his_ omega. Geralt had lied to seal the deal, and then had tried harder to ignore the way that the lie made everything feel lighter than it ever should. Jaskier was not his omega, and Jaskier would never be his omega. As far as Geralt was concerned, he would never have one. He couldn’t have children, and his lifestyle was no place for an omega _or_ a child. Jaskier was better off finding some alpha noble to take him in, wed him and mate him and make something honest out of him.

Geralt didn’t like that idea, and he knew Jaskier wouldn’t. Unfortunately, Jaskier’s feelings didn’t matter. Omegas didn’t matter, either. He knew that; it was why he went to such lengths to appear as anything other than an omega. When people knew what he was, he ran into problems. When he couldn’t mask himself, he ran into bigger problems. Thankfully, the tavern owner understood all of that. He had an omegan daughter all his own, and as much as he knew the world she would live in, he didn’t like it.

Once Geralt had a little iron key and a promise that any alpha blood shed by his hand would go forgiven, he returned to Jaskier. Jaskier was sitting in the exact place and position Jaskier had left him in, more affected by the alpha sound in Geralt’s voice than either of them had realized he would be. All that changed was that he was squirming uncomfortably, slick beginning to form between his legs.

“We’re going upstairs,” Geralt said.

“What about your food?”

Geralt shook his head. “I’ll get more. Let’s go.”

“Can you even afford that? I can help—”

“ _Now_ , Jaskier,” Geralt barked; it shut Jaskier up, immediately.

Jaskier yelped and was standing up an instant later. All of a sudden, he was overwhelmed with _guilt_. He was being a burden on Geralt, and no alpha liked a burdensome omega. He was costing Geralt time and coin. For as many days as he would be locked in bed taking care of Jaskier’s heat, he could have been out taking more jobs and making coin to live by. Instead, whatever it was he’d saved up to take care of himself was going to be spent on taking care of Jaskier.

“Let’s go,” Geralt said. Just to ensure that the sudden sour smell didn’t mean Jaskier was going to take it all back and run off so he _could_ just be raped in an alley way, Geralt grabbed him by his arm and dragged him along.

Geralt pushed his way through the crowd of nosy people and back towards the stairs. He pushed Jaskier up in front of him, becoming a physical barrier between Jaskier and those who might seek to do him harm. No one would dare follow, not with Geralt there. He wasn’t just strong—he was armed and armored. Anyone who even so much as looked at Jaskier wrong would find themselves on the opposite end of a blade. It was a dramatic response, but Geralt didn’t trust himself to do anything less.

Their room was at the end of the hall, as far from the stairs as was possible. It was the biggest room available, too. Inside, there was a double bed and a wash basin, as well as a private place to eat. Behind another door, there was a small tub. Geralt wouldn’t have the time or patience to ensure the water was _warm_ , but Jaskier hopefully wouldn’t remember being dunked in cold water a few times during this. It was important to stay clean, fed, and all that other stuff. It was just common sense.

“Get comfortable,” Geralt muttered. He came back from his brief inspection of the room to find Jaskier just standing in the middle of the floor.

Jaskier nodded. He moved over to sit on the side of the bed while Geralt returned to the front door of the room, effectively locking them inside. Instead of joining Jaskier on the bed, he pulled up a chair from the private eating table and dropped himself down in it. He had far more clothes to remove, far more _difficult_ clothes to remove. Jaskier only had to tug a few things off, but he hadn’t even begun movie. He was too entranced, watching Geralt start to untie his laces and remove his armor.

Geralt was efficient and quick, peeling more and more layers off and setting them off to the side. Jaskier didn’t _stop_ staring until Geralt was down to just an undershirt and trousers. It was the least dressed Jaskier had ever seen him, and it left him with a strange, warm feeling. Jaskier blamed it on the heat. He was sweltering and there was already slick staining his underclothes. Geralt seemed entirely unaffected, too, and something about that was more attractive than it had any right to be.

“Have you ever—with an omega, I mean?” Jaskier muttered.

“Not with one in heat, no,” Geralt said. He paid for his pleasure, and the brothels that stocked omegas tended not to like them in heat. Things got complicated when omegas were in heat; they were so much more fertile. Prostitutes having children made things even _more_ complicated.

“Are you sure—?”

“If you ask me that one more time,” Geralt grumbled. “Do you think this is strange? Is that the problem? You’re the one who asked.”

“I know! I know,” Jaskier sighed, wrapping his arms around himself. He squirmed, rubbing his knees together. It wouldn’t be long, now. “Usually when we meet you do anything you can to get me to leave. I wasn’t expecting this.”

Geralt tried to be offended that Jaskier was really expecting him to have declined this plea for help. With the consequences, there was no way Geralt could have denied. The fact that Jaskier believed otherwise was either because Geralt had left such a poor impression on Jaskier with their past interactions that Jaskier really believed Geralt would willingly allow him to be raped, or Jaskier was just that insecure. Geralt hoped for the latter. He hadn’t always been kind to Jaskier, but that was pushing it. He wouldn’t willingly let Jaskier get hurt.

“You should just relax,” Geralt said instead of arguing. Jaskier didn’t need to be yelled at right now. “I won’t come over until you’re ready.”

Jaskier gave a weak smile, but he didn’t move. He intended to just sit there until his heat really started. Once it had, the embarrassment and nervousness would melt away. He’d be more concerned with pleasure and _now_ than he would be with the fact that he’d just asked one of his only friends to fuck him. Geralt would see Jaskier at his worst, soon, reduced to nothing but a desperate, moaning mess. If that didn’t ruin their friendship, then Jaskier would relax. The problem was he didn’t _know_ if it wouldn’t ruin their friendship until after the damage had already been done.

He just wanted the whole thing to start so he could breathe.

They sat there in relative silence until Jaskier made a sudden gasp, some hour later. Geralt could smell the sudden spike, the sudden lust and arousal. Jaskier was gone, in an instant, as if he’d never been there at all. All of a sudden, he was pushing himself back onto the bed, scrambling at his clothes as his skin heated up. It was like he’d forgotten how to work his fingers. He couldn’t undo the laces, and no matter how he tried, he couldn’t simply tug the clothing free.

“Geralt—” Jaskier gasped. “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt— _please_ —”

Geralt pushed himself up from the chair and wasted no time crossing the room. This was new. This was something he’d never experienced before. He’d been around omegas in heat before, but never had they triggered something deep and _primal_ within him that told him he needed to _fuck_. Something was wrong, but he didn’t have the time to think about it. Not with Jaskier lying there, panting, with his legs spread open and a gasp for Geralt’s presence on his lips.

Once his knees hit the side of the bed, Geralt toppled over Jaskier and tore at his clothes—gently. Gently. He tried to keep himself aware, awake. He didn’t rip Jaskier’s clothes off him like every instinct in his body screamed for him to do. He wouldn’t send Jaskier walking out of this room in the days to come _naked_. No, he peeled Jaskier out of his clothes like unwrapping a present, opening something meant just for him. He was careful, letting the tips of his fingers brush down Jaskier’s legs as his trousers came down.

Everything else fell away once Geralt had Jaskier naked. While not untouched, his skin was soft and smooth, a hard contrast to the rough callouses of Geralt’s hands. Geralt ran his touch from Jaskier’s knees to his thighs, spreading them open so Geralt could look at his slick, glistening cunt. The smell of him was something unlike anything Geralt had ever come across. And Jaskier’s cries—the desperate little whine he made as Geralt’s hands passed over his pelvis and ran over his stomach.

“ _Please_ , don’t make me wait—” Jaskier gasped, reaching up for Geralt. Geralt grabbed Jaskier by the wrists and pinned him down, kept him there with a sudden, searing kiss.

As they kissed, tongues rubbed together and teeth clacking, Geralt worked his hands down Jaskier’s chest. Like a good, proper omega, Jaskier kept his hands right where Geralt had pressed them into the mattress. His back arched as Geralt’s hands brushed his nipples. Geralt pinched them between his fingers, rolling them until they were turning a pretty red. Jaskier moaned into their kiss his hips stuttering. He struggled to keep his hands in place, but he managed.

Geralt’s hands reached Jaskier’s hips and grabbed them with a hold hard enough to bruise. With that hold, Geralt yanked Jaskier down, bending him at the waist, so their hips pressed together. Jaskier broke their kiss to cry out, the sudden press of Geralt’s cock up against his cunt. He could feel the outline of it, hard and thick against his folds. There were trousers between them; Jaskier had never hated trousers more than he did at that moment. _He_ _’d_ made Geralt like that—he deserved his reward. He wanted that hard cock inside of him.

“Geralt—”

Geralt pressed a hand down to Jaskier’s chest and kept him right there, entirely still.

“Shut _up_ ,” Geralt growled. “If you so much as make a fucking _sound_ before I say you can, I will leave you like this. Do you understand me?” It was an empty threat. Jaskier could see it in Geralt’s eyes—the hunger that would keep him here.

Jaskier nodded anyway, pressing his lips together tightly. He’d do anything Geralt wanted him to. Anything to keep Geralt here, with him, _happy_ with him. Jaskier needed this so badly. He’d never needed an alpha more in his life. He’d never needed _Geralt_ more. It was Geralt he wanted. It was Geralt he so desperately longed for.

With the newfound silence, Geralt started to rock his hips forward. He ran the length of his clothed cock right through Jaskier’s folds, watching the way it made him tremble and jump. His entire body strained with his need to move, to make noise—to do _something_. Jaskier closed his eyes tightly and wrung his fingers into the sheets as Geralt moved against him. Then, there were teeth over his chest. Geralt leaned down, bracing himself on the mattress, and mouthed over Jaskier’s chest, dragging small nips along the path he drew.

Jaskier’s body shook with the pleasure of It. When Geralt’s lips wrapped around his nipple, he almost yelped. Instead, he just arched his chest into that hot, wet touch and bucked his hips to meet Geralt’s aching cock. With all of Jaskier’s squirming, coupled with the slick leaking out from his cunt, Geralt could barely contain himself. He pulled back, all of a sudden, until they weren’t even touching. If not for Geralt’s threat, Jaskier would have _cried_ for him to return. Instead, he just rolled his hips aimlessly into the empty air and watched as Geralt tore at his clothes.

Once Geralt was naked, he returned to the bed. He went straight to work, wrenching Jaskier’s thighs apart and hooking two fingers into his cunt. Jaskier slapped his hands over his mouth, trying to keep himself quiet. Geralt’s fingers worked deep, fast—it was just a precaution. Just making sure Jaskier could take him, but Jaskier could. He was _ready_. He spread his thighs open a little wider and worked his hips down on Geralt’s fingers to show him that. He was slick, dripping with it. The lips of his cunt were swollen, and his little cocklet was straining against his hip.

While Geralt worked Jaskier open, he stroked his own cock. He was dripping, _aching_ with a need he’d never felt before. If he didn’t give in, Geralt thought he might truly die here. His head was fogged with need, with want. He stroked himself with a purpose, spreading precum down his length as he fucked Jaskier on his fingers. The way Jaskier’s entire body flushed was something beautiful, and he was trying so _desperately_ to stay quiet. Geralt couldn’t help but feel the swell of pride—his omega was doing so _well_.

Jaskier. Jaskier was doing well. Geralt didn’t own him. Geralt didn’t _want_ to own him.

Geralt pulled his fingers back and wiped them on the bed, shuffling forward. He grabbed one of Jaskier’s thighs and pulled him down, closer, finally getting to rub the head of his cock through Jaskier’s slick, swollen folds. Jaskier’s entire body trembled in response. Geralt could _feel_ the way his hole quivered to show off just how desperate he was. Jaskier smelled like all the sweetest things, unconsciously trying to bring Geralt closer. He’d won, without even knowing it. Geralt leaned forward and threaded his fingers back through Jaskier’s hair to tilt his head.

“I want to hear you,” Geralt rasped.

“Geralt—” Jaskier gasped, only to have the air forced right from his throat as Geralt pressed into him in one, swift thrust.

Jaskier threw his head back, crying out at the sudden intrusion. Geralt’s cock was thick— _inside of him_. Jaskier clawed through the bedsheets, gasping and panting with the sudden rush of pleasure through him. Geralt ground against him at first, just working his prick deeper, as far as Jaskier could take him—until their hips were pressed flush together. Jaskier had never felt so full, so _perfect_. He wanted more. He worked his hips down to meet Geralt’s shallow thrusts, and that did nothing but turn Geralt on further.

With a tight grip on his hips, a _bruising_ hold, Geralt fucked into Jaskier with as much strength as he could muster. His thrusts were brutal, punching breath out of Jaskier each time their skin slapped together. Jaskier’s jaw was dropped open, his cries strained and breathless. He couldn’t even _talk_ —a blessed silence filled with pretty little moans and the scent of pure, unbridled desperation.

“Look at you,” Geralt growled, bending down over Jaskier and crowding him into the bed. “All _mine_ —” Geralt groaned as Jaskier clenched down around him. “Should have been fucking you from the beginning.”

Jaskier nodded eagerly. His hands shot up, gripping Geralt’s shoulders with his nails as Geralt only moved faster. The bed shook beneath them, their bodies moving together. Geralt’s grunts and groans were inches from Jaskier’s ear, and each one threatened to send him tumbling over the edge. Jaskier had all but lost himself, already, each full breach of Geralt’s cock inside of him. He was speared open wide, his thighs trembling. Everything was hot, _hot_ —Jaskier was sweating, his hair sticking to his forehead.

It was just the beginning. If it were going to be like _this_ for the next few days, Jaskier didn’t know how he would manage it. Geralt had untold stamina, and he proved it each time their hips slapped together. Thankfully, Jaskier didn’t care how he would manage it. All that he knew was that he _wanted_ it. He clawed his nails down Geralt’s back, tangling fingers in the hair at the base of his neck, trying to bring him closer.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s thighs, pulling back so he could bend Jaskier in laugh. Jaskier still held onto him, desperately, his eyes closing tight. He tightened up, clenching down as Geralt fucked him _deeper_. Every brush of his cockhead had Jaskier seeing stars, had his body lighting up with more, more, _more_.

“Geralt— _Geralt_ , I can’t, I can’t—” Jaskier cried.

Geralt grunted and pressed his head down right into Jaskier’s chest. He ground against him, trading in thrusts for deep, measured rolls of his hips while he mouthed over Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier’s body jolted. Everything Geralt did kept him right at that edge with nerves on fire and cunt _aching_. Jaskier cried out as everything crested, fell right over him in a wave of heat and pleasure like _nothing_ he’d ever felt. He came, right there, body shaking from the force of it. He moaned out, gushing down over Geralt’s cock.

That didn’t stop Geralt. He just shifted Jaskier, moving his legs over to one side and twisting Jaskier’s hips. It was the perfect angle to lean over and meet Jaskier in a hard kiss, groaning when Jaskier’s fingers moved through his hair. Every _thrust_ was harder than the first, deep and deliberate. Jaskier took each one, a whimper in his throat as they kissed and kissed again. Saliva dripped down Jaskier’s chin, his jaw, but he only kissed back desperately. Geralt’s tongue was deep in his mouth, cock deep in his cunt—Jaskier’s orgasm went on for what felt like _forever_.

When Geralt finally came, it was with a loud groan and a bruising grip on Jaskier’s thigh. He had one hand gripped over the side of Jaskier’s neck, hard. As much as his instincts begged for it, Geralt wouldn’t mark Jaskier. That would be _cruel_. It would be just as cruel to leave Jaskier. This was precisely why Jaskier had asked for _his_ help. It would be the best heat he ever had, because he could have _everything_ without worrying about the consequences.

Geralt came right inside of Jaskier, working his hips until his knot caught on the edges of Jaskier’s cunt and stuffed him full. Jaskier whimpered in response, rolling his hips down slowly, a bit desperately. He pulled a pillow down against his chest, coming down from the first high of his heat and just seeking _comfort_. Geralt wasn’t good at the comfort part, but he tried. He leaned down over Jaskier, doing his best to not tug or pull on anything, and kissed along the line of his jaw.

Jaskier was insatiable, but that was just how Geralt had expected him to be. He could keep up. When Jaskier wasn’t sucking his cock with his own fingers pressed inside of his cunt, he was riding Geralt with pure desperation. There wasn’t anything Geralt couldn’t do to Jaskier that he wouldn’t beg for. He took Jaskier on his side, he took him with Jaskier’s face pressed into the mattress and his perky little arse up to _smack_ so hard it jiggled.

Geralt spend hours down between Jaskier’s thighs, listening to him _squeal_ each time Geralt worked his tongue inside. Jaskier’s cunt was sopping wet, and Geralt lapped through his folds like a starving man. All Jaskier could do was lay there and tremble and cry with every orgasm Geralt pulled out of him. He was a mess. He was a desperate, disgusting mess, and Geralt continued to dive back for more.

He knotted Jaskier in the bath—it’d been an accident, but Geralt couldn’t hold himself back. He’d had Jaskier bent over the side of the tub, his arse up in the air; the knot had come on its own. With Jaskier locked against him, Geralt had struggled to get him to the bed—but he did, only to bend Jaskier over the side of it and fuck him on his knot until Jaskier had come again and again, screaming with pleasure and clawing through the blankets.

By the time Jaskier’s heat was done, four days later, the two of them were exhausted, wrecked, and dirty. Geralt hadn’t had the strength to wash them both, so the morning of Jaskier’s first moment of clarity came with the undignified realization that Geralt’s spend was leaking between his thighs. Jaskier was about to make a fuss about it, but as he pushed himself up, he saw something else. He’d been sleeping on Geralt’s arm, where somewhere in the middle of the night, Geralt had been pressed up against his back to keep him warm.

“Geralt—what happened to your arm?” Jaskier asked. When he shifted, it became hard to ignore the sticky mess between his thighs, but Geralt’s arm was _covered_ in bite marks.

Geralt opened one weary eye and glanced at Jaskier. He didn’t say anything, just offered a weak grin and closed his eyes, again. Jaskier understood, from that alone. He’d invited an alpha into his bed without precautions—Geralt could have bitten him at any point during his heat, and Jaskier wouldn’t have had a single complaint. He might have even begged for it as much as he begged for a knot—he didn’t know.

“I—thank you,” Jaskier muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“We need to bathe,” Geralt muttered. “I’ll be on my way, after that.”

Any other time, Jaskier might have argued to follow, but he didn’t have the energy for that. He barely had the energy to pull himself out of bed for a bath. This wasn’t exactly the afterheat he was expecting, but Geralt wasn’t his mate. Geralt barely liked him, on a good day. This had been a kindness and nothing more. Jaskier appreciated it, and he wouldn’t press further.

They both bathed and didn’t share more than a cordial farewell. Geralt left first, happy to let Jaskier keep the room for as long as he needed. Jaskier didn’t stay much longer. He felt groggy and a bit off, but that wasn’t an excuse to laze around in some strange tavern. Might have Jaskier wished for the ideal of being pampered in a fine bed with silken sheets, he knew what he had to give up to get that—his freedom. He wasn’t _quite_ ready to sell himself off to some noble alpha. Being Julian Alfred Pankratz would catch a hefty price.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi i have lost absolutely all motivation but we're working hard and hardly working still. here's the next chapter.
> 
> SOME OF YOU WERE RIGHT which makes me sad but it's not like I wasn't being obvious from the beginning. ANYWAY do enjoy <3 comments and kudos are appreciated

During the middle of a performance, Jaskier was suddenly overcome with this sickly, nauseous feeling. He managed to hold it down through the rest of the song, but he made his leave early because of it. It’d been a relatively productive performance; he had gotten some real coin, enough that he’d be able to have himself a real meal before he went upon his merry way. Food was the last thing on his mind with the nausea he was feeling. Though he kept the bile at bay while he picked up his coin and his lute, he made a beeline for the door immediately after.

Having barely made it to some quiet place behind the tavern hall, Jaskier unloaded an entire day’s worth of food right into the dirt. He dropped down to his knees, gagging and heaving until there was nothing more to vomit. Even then, his body rebelled. Jaskier dry heaved against the ground until his stomach hurt and his throat had gone dry. Only then did it finally end, and he could sit back on his heels and breathe. He breathed hard, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

It must have been something he’d eaten. Jaskier couldn’t imagine it to be anything else. As far as he knew, he hadn’t been in contact with anyone who’d been ill. He spent most of his time on his own; traveling was a boring, quiet thing he only did because he had to. However, he also hadn’t eaten much, and it was nothing he hadn’t eaten before. Whatever it was, it left him feeling a bit off, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. He didn’t have time to be sick; being sick meant that he wouldn’t be able to perform, and he _needed_ to perform.

Unless, of course, he could hunt Geralt back down and beg him for some more help. It’d been about a month since he’d seen Geralt, which was no time at all, in the scheme of things. Still, Jaskier missed Geralt when they weren’t together, as much as Geralt would have preferred to have nothing to do with him. It was a stupid and desperate thing that Jaskier was going to blame on some hormonal thing he couldn’t control. Some temporary little fake bond or something they might have formed when Geralt helped him through his heat.

Now, all Jaskier needed was for it to go away. However unfortunate it was, another wave of nausea spilled over Jaskier before he could think too far into that. This time, when he vomited, he did so loud enough to catch the attention of some sympathetic passerby. She hurried over from the tree line and dropped down to Jaskier’s side, resting her hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “You had the brisket, didn’t you? It’s awful stuff, really. No reason anyone should have to eat that.”

“No, no, I’m—” Jaskier tried to argue. He hadn’t had any meat, at all.

“Nonsense. That old twat in the kitchen is always getting people sick. Let me help you out. I can get you a room at the inn tonight, will that do? You should at least be well rested if you intend to travel with an illness.”

Jaskier couldn’t turn that down; he’d be a fool, if he did. He vastly preferred staying at inns to seedy little taverns and camps on the side of the road. It had some slight reason to do with the fear that someone would find out what he was; most alphas didn’t care one way or the other about whether an omega was in heat or not to have their way. As long as Jaskier could pass as something else, he was fine, but that fear never went away. It was fear that he’d been raised on, and rightfully so. So far, it’d kept him safe.

He followed the overly concerned woman across the road and to the inn. This was a family run town, in which everyone knew everyone knew everyone who sometimes even knew the travelers. While Jaskier didn’t know anyone, the woman introduced him as a friend of a friend who had come down with some terrible illness. He needed a room, and she intended to simply give it to him. Her aunt, grandmother, or other behind the counter didn’t seem too concerned, and simply handed over a key, which the woman passed to Jaskier.

“I really can’t thank you enough,” he said. Though he _sounded_ much better than he had mid-vomit, the woman didn’t seem to notice. Sick people usually sounded sick, but as far as Jaskier was concerned, he’d only had a brief bout of unexplained nausea.

“It’s no trouble at all. I’ll have someone send you up some _real_ food later, alright? No sense risking it again.” She laughed finding herself all too amusing. “You’re a bard, aren’t you?”

“Indeed.” Jaskier produced his lute, quite proud of it. “I could play, if you like. Before I go, anyway. I don’t intend to linger for too long, though I do appreciate the room.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask for that. You need your rest—so, _go_ and get that rest.” She laughed and pushed Jaskier towards the back of the inn.

The rooms were on a lower level that had been excavated during the building of the inn some generations ago. It was quite well designed, and the lower level rooms were kept cool simply due to the ground that surrounded them. It did mean that those who ran the inn needed a rather impressive wake up system, as no one could rely on the sun, but that was a small price to pay for the sheer comfort they could provide.

Jaskier went to his room and closed the door behind him. After setting his lute and the key off onto the small provided table, he collapsed down to the bed with a hand behind his head and a hand resting on his stomach. He still didn’t feel back to his best, but he didn’t think he’d be vomiting again, anytime soon. At least, he hoped not. He didn’t think he had anything left in his system _to_ vomit, if the sudden rumbling was anything to go by. Still, that promised meal wasn’t anything to look forward to if all it would do was make him sick again.

What he needed to do was find a healer or a doctor, whichever was easiest to come across, and see if they could fix his little ailment. Vomiting put hard strain on the throat, which would render him entirely useless. If he was useless, then he would have no coin, no food, and no life. That was the future he was trying to avoid, because that was going to put him on the fast track to the _last_ thing he wanted—becoming nothing more than a glorified brood mother for some rich alpha.

He’d been told, in his youth, that that was the best future an omega could hope for. It was, of course, followed by the horrors of all the _other_ optional life paths for an omega. Jaskier remembered them well, because his mother thought they were good bedtime stories. Maybe her goal had been to make that life he didn’t want more appealing in telling him the stories of omegas who had their wombs ripped out, only to be forced to work as prostitutes until they died.

All it had done, though, was make Jaskier careful. He needed to find a healer or a doctor, but he was on his way to meet with his special _contact_ to restock on the scent-killing poultices and heat-killing potions she made. Jaskier was desperate for them, even if he had a couple of months, now, to ensure he replenished. It sounded like a lot of time, but this was a woman who kept on the move. Her work was a certain type of illegal, because no alpha in their right mind wanted a valuable omega to _hide_ , especially in plain sight. It was an insult to their great prowess.

Jaskier rolled onto his side and tried not to think about it. There were better things to think about, more important things. He was hungry and willing to risk another bout of vomiting if it meant he could eat something. Then, he would sleep the rest of the day away. In the morning, he would head out north for his contact, and simply just hope for the best.

Come morning, Jaskier wanted nothing less than to just stay in bed and ignore the need to travel. His stomach was in more pain than he could imagine, and he certainly felt like he was about to vomit, again. He tried to keep it down as he forced himself to get up and prepared for his day. He couldn’t stay in this town; two months should have been more than enough time to get what he needed, but he traveled on foot. Every day he lost was detrimental to his ability to stay hidden, so he needed to go.

The _need_ didn’t help Jaskier move any faster. Everything hurt, and he felt like something was swollen. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done to cause that, but there was no sense dwelling on it. It was just a state of being he was going to have to deal with.

Thankfully, he was also provided breakfast. Apparently, that woman had felt so bad for some random stranger she found vomiting that she’d wanted to ensure he was well taken care of until he was on his way. For that, he was grateful. The food was good, and even if it didn’t quite sit right in his stomach, it was going to be what he needed to get a move on. At least, he hoped it would be enough to get him to the next town. If he could make that sort of ground, he’d be more than happy to let himself rest for the night. He’d try and play, get some coin, and take a room for the night.

That sort of progress would get him where he needed to be in a week, maybe, and that was being as hopeful as possible. If this ailment got any worse or bad weather rolled in, Jaskier might need to reconsider what he was willing to do. As it stood, this was the worst he’d ever felt; he was going to have to fight through it, but if it got _worse_ —he didn’t think he’d be able to force himself through that. He would have preferred death, really. Already, he wanted to spend the morning hunched over a mound of dirt and puking.

There was no time for that. He needed to get a move on before he lost all of his strength. He packed up his meager possessions and coin before heading out to nab something hearty for breakfast. It’d probably be all he could manage to eat all day. Jaskier wasn’t exactly a hunter, and there wouldn’t be any real purchasable food until he hit his goal of the next town.

With his lute in hand and nothing much to do but hum to himself, Jaskier headed straight out of town. Singing was about the only way he could think to ignore the growing nausea. If he ignored it, then it wouldn’t be there. He didn’t have the time to be sick, and the fact that it seemed ever more by the second that he _was_ sick was concerning. If he lost his voice, he lost his coin. If he couldn’t _protect himself_ , then he may lose a few things that were more important.

If he had a horse, he might at least be able to travel in better comfort. He didn’t have the coin to _buy_ a horse, which posed a problem. If he looked for the right dealer, he could probably just offer up a go at him as trade, but that got messy. He’d heard of it happening—omegas trading a night for whatever it was they needed. Sometimes it ended just as well, with them getting what they wanted and leaving one very satisfied alpha. Other times, it ended in forced bonding and pregnancy and a whole mess of things that Jaskier would rather die than deal with.

After a hesitant strum, Jaskier stopped his playing in turn for idly rubbing the back of his neck. He wore high collars for a reason, but in the throngs of his heat, he’d torn off his clothes like he didn’t have something to protect. When it all came to an end, he still _had_ that something. He liked to think of it as freedom; he’d seen how omegas acted when they were marked, and it wasn’t always a good thing. Especially if they hadn’t wanted that mark.

Clear as the moment it’d happened, Jaskier could still _see_ Geralt’s arm covered in bite marks. Just the image had Jaskier’s chest swelling, feeling _warm_. In such a quiet way that he wasn’t even sure he believed he, he really thought that he wouldn’t have minded if Geralt had bitten him. Really, it might have even been for the best. If Jaskier _was_ bonded, he had a better chance of being left alone on his solo travels. That would be the point of it, too, which meant he wouldn’t bother Geralt with anything he didn’t have to.

There would be the pesky bit that Jaskier would be unable to deal with his heats alone once he was bonded, but as long as he could keep suppressing them, it didn’t really matter. If Jaskier had the courage to _ask_ for something like that, it might have worked well. He had no way of knowing if Geralt would have agreed, but Jaskier kept going back to the image of Geralt’s arm covered in bite marks. Instinct alone may have given him the urge to bite, but there had to have been something else that had him biting his arm and not the nape of Jaskier’s neck.

Most alphas Jaskier knew wouldn’t have hesitated. Geralt didn’t just hesitate, he _didn_ _’t_.

As warm as the thought left Jaskier, it was immediately overrun with the urge to vomit. He was overwhelmed with it, a sudden rush of nausea and pain. Jaskier barely caught himself on the side of a tree before he was dropping down to his knees and throwing up _everything_ he’d managed to eat for breakfast. Even once it was gone, he was stuck there dry heaving and holding around his stomach until it hurt. Then, he fell into the side of the tree and just tried to breathe.

He was sick. There was no getting around it. He was terribly, awfully sick, and there was nothing he could do about it. The best that he could hope for was that it would go away with enough rest, but he didn’t have time to rest. If he couldn’t get his potions before his next heat came, he didn’t know what he’d do. Coincidence alone had the last one work out so well. He couldn’t count on Geralt magically showing up again to take care of him—he couldn’t even count on Geralt _agreeing_ to do it again, if he were there.

Just as Jaskier was about to stand back up and resign himself to a hike of dry heaving and vomiting, he heard the telling sound of a horse and carriage coming to a stop at an old man’s order. Jaskier looked up from the ground to see the old man, shaggy looking with an old floppy hat to protect him from the sun. He had wheat stacked up in the back of his carriage, and beside him sat a lovely young woman. Jaskier always thought he would have been quite lucky to find himself a beautiful alpha lady.

“Not looking too good there, son,” the old man said. “Get down there and help him up,” he said to the girl.

She jumped down from the carriage and gathered up her skirts, hurrying across the road and over to the tree where Jaskier was pathetically draped over his own vomit. The moment she approached, Jaskier felt safer almost instantly. They were just two betas. No reason for them to know he was an omega, and if they found out, then there was no reason for them to do anything. They didn’t look like the kind of desperate betas who would take advantage—he hoped, anyway.

The beta girl helped Jaskier up, and because he had no real choice but to follow, helped him over to the carriage. There wasn’t any room in the front for him to sit, which put him in the back with the wheat, but it was _comfortable_. The comfort seemed to ease his nausea near instantly.

“I’d offer to take you to town,” the old man said, once he started up the carriage again, “but I think you need to be heading somewhere else.”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asked.

“There’s this old hut not too far up. Got a mage there, they do. Probably be able to fix you right up. I seen that lute there, so I bet you’ll be needing a quick fix to do what you do.”

Jaskier scoffed, giving a weak smile. “That sounds wonderful. I’m not a fan of being sick.”

“Aye, I don’t be thinking anyone is. You just get some rest. I’ll call on you when we’re there.”

Jaskier settled down into the side of the carriage and let his eyes close. This was a much nicer way to travel. He really should think about getting himself a horse. If he couldn’t buy one, with the right amount of skill he might be able to charm himself one. Or steal one. It wasn’t the sort of option he normally considered, but this sickness had some powerful powers of persuasion.

An hour passed. For that hour, Jaskier found himself dead asleep. Though he’d just woken up not too long ago, the exhaustion took him right back over. At the end of that hour, they arrived at the little hut the man had been talking about. Jaskier was woken by the beta girl and helped down from the back of the carriage. With his wakefulness came the nausea, but he at least managed not to vomit on the poor girl.

“Will you be alright from here?” the girl asked. “Town is just a few miles north. When you’re ready, you just follow the road. We’re in town for the market, so we won’t be around for long. Still, it’d be lovely to see you there.”

Jaskier gave a weak smile and nodded. “If I make it, sure. Thank you for the help.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Hope to see you.” She let Jaskier go and waved at him before climbing back onto the carriage.

Jaskier just stood there in the grass until they left. Then, he turned back through the hut and managed up enough strength to knock on the door. What he saw on the other side of the door was the _last_ thing he expected—someone that he recognized. It’d been a brief meeting, and if not for the current circumstance, he may have not even remembered her. She certainly remembered him, just from the strange look on her face. Still, Yennefer took Jaskier into her strange little hut and sat him down.

“Didn’t expect to be seeing you again,” she said. “Not after all that trouble you gave me.”

Jaskier shrugged. “It’s not exactly my choice to be here, either. Those nice people dropped me off after they saw me hurling on the side of the road.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “Quaint,” she said.

They’d met some years prior when Jaskier had the untold honor of performing for Aedirn’s court. It had been a headache for Yennefer when Jaskier let the fun of the party get the best of him. He hadn’t been quite so concerned back then. After Yennefer saved him, and by default learned his secret, they parted ways as unlikely somethings.

“So, tell me what seems to be the trouble,” she said. “I won’t be here for long, of course. Just a bit of something on the side. Dealing with people gets quite tiring after a bit.”

“Right,” Jaskier gave a nervous laugh.

After, he proceeded to describe what was wrong. It was the nausea, the vomiting. He couldn’t seem to keep any food down, plus the untold exhaustion. He was bloated, swollen, and incredibly unhappy all around. His throat was sore from the vomiting. His head hurt from _everything_. All he wanted was something quick to put him back on his feet so he could get going with whatever coin he’d have left after this.

Yennefer looked at him for a moment, taking Jaskier’s pathetic look in from head to toe. He looked exhausted. He looked like he hadn’t had anything to eat. His skin was pale and flushed all at the same time. She had a suspicion of what was wrong, but it was difficult to know for sure without a few _tests_ , so to say. Yennefer was a beta. She didn’t have that innate sense of smell that could just pinpoint problems, but she made up for it with a vast knowledge of herbs and plants.

“You’ll do anything I say, yes?” Yennefer asked, standing up.

“Sure?” Jaskier watched her. She rummaged through her stores, looking for something particular. “You’re the expert, I suppose.”

She scoffed. “You _suppose_? I should send you away just for that. Here.” She found what she was looking for.

Jaskier’s nose scrunched up at the next order. He hadn’t really had a need to visit many healers, but the few he had visited hadn’t asked him to piss on something. But he had just promised Yennefer he’d do whatever she asked him to. That must have been the reason she mentioned it; even she would know that at the behest to piss on some pants, even Jaskier wasn’t going to be as open to it as he was open to many things. Still, he obliged. He went through as Yennefer did different _tests_ , she called them.

At the end of it all, she didn’t even have the decency to serve him something to drink. She just left him sitting out in the middle of the floor while she worked. She worked for what felt like an hour—a painfully long, boring hour. Jaskier had nothing to do but sit there and count the drawers in her chest of little herbs, or whatever it was she kept in there. All he could do was stare until Yennefer was finished, and she took her sweet time. From what Jaskier could see, it looked like she was just repeating the movements.

Like she was in shock at what she found.

That left Jaskier feeling uncomfortable, squirming in his seat. If not for the fact that his stomach was entirely empty, he might have even let it work him back up into vomiting. There wasn’t time for that. Yennefer finally decided whatever she’d found was the truth and had come back to sit across from Jaskier. He really felt like he could have used some tea—something calming. His foot was tapping, and he couldn’t think straight.

“Jaskier,” she said, “I do have something to help, but it’s only going to be a temporary solution, you understand. It’ll take a bit longer for everything to tide over.”

“What do you mean for things to _tide over_?” He asked, frowning.

“This isn’t exactly an ailment that can be cured. It will, go away on its own, eventually. People differ on how long they believe it takes.”

Yennefer stood back up to start working on something that could at least abate the symptoms for a time. Jaskier at least deserved that, and she’d even do it free of charge. She was nothing if not a bit _jealous_ , actually, of Jaskier’s current condition. She would never say that out loud, but she would at least try to keep herself composed.

“How long, exactly?” Jaskier winced.

“Some say it’s a nine-month problem. Others believe it’s approximately a fifteen-year problem. _Some_ believe it’s a lifetime problem.” Yennefer bit her lip as she turned, holding out a cup for Jaskier to take.

Jaskier stared at her, wide eyes. He couldn’t muster the strength to reach out and take the cup, even as he knew that it would make this nausea go away. He was too busy staring. Too busy gawking and feeling bile grow back up in his throat.

“Jaskier? Did you hear me?” She asked, taking a step closer. “Or do you not understand? Is that the problem?”

He still wasn’t responding.

“Jaskier, you’re pregnant—”

“I heard you!” He shouted, standing up in a sudden surge of _anger_. He grabbed his head and started to pace.

He was the picture of denial if Yennefer had ever seen it. She couldn’t understand his reaction, though. This should be happy news. Every omega she’d ever told they were pregnant was overjoyed with the news. Jaskier was just shaking his head and muttering under his breath, walking about in small circles.

“Jaskier?”

“I can’t be!” Jaskier shouted. “I can’t be pregnant—I haven’t—not with anyone—and—!” He collapsed back down into the chair, shaking his head furiously. “I can’t be pregnant! You’re wrong. You have to be wrong!”

“Oh, believe me, it’d be nice if it worked that way,” she argued. “You don’t just get to decide you’re not. I tested—”

“You were wrong! There’s no way—I can’t be pregnant. I haven’t—”

“Stop you’re sniveling,” Yennefer snapped. She whirled around the room to approach Jaskier, kneeling that they would be eye-level. “You can tell me what happened,” she said.

“What?” Jaskier looked at her with at tilted head.

“I have seen a few omegas deny this profusely, and most of them—”

“You think I was _attacked_?” Jaskier gawked, shaking his head. “No, no—I wasn’t.”

He bent over, wrapping his arms around his middle and just sighing. He looked at Yennefer, then down to the space between his knees. This was impossible. Yennefer _had_ to be wrong. How could she be right? The only alpha he’d slept with off of those beautiful herbs that kept him _not_ pregnant was Geralt. Geralt couldn’t have kids. Jaskier knew that better than anyone—Geralt was infertile. That was part of the price of being a Witcher. Geralt always thought it was better that way.

“Then what’s the problem?” Yennefer asked. “You should be overjoyed. Do you know how many people want children but can’t have any? Is it because you’re not bonded, or what—?”

“No,” Jaskier cut her off.

Yennefer frowned, standing up and crossing her arms. “Then what’s the problem? You weren’t attacked, and you don’t seem to mind being a single parent. Is the issue your nomadic lifestyle?”

Jaskier shook his head, again.

“Then what’s the problem, Jaskier?!”

“It’s just not _possible_ ,” Jaskier whimpered. “I can’t be pregnant. I can’t be. I—” his voice caught in his throat; Yennefer signed.

“When was the last time you had a heat?”

“A month ago. It was an accident.”

“You obviously spent it with someone. Shouldn’t be too hard to figure out who the father is.” Yennefer huffed, rolling her eyes.

“That’s not the problem. I know _exactly_ who the father is—it shouldn’t be possible,” Jaskier argued. He stood up and just shook his head, again. “I _can_ _’t_ be pregnant, don’t you understand?”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “I clearly don’t. Why don’t you end this rather obnoxious suspense and tell me what happened? Who did you have your heat with?”

Jaskier sucked in a deep breath. “Geralt.”

Yennefer blinked. “Geralt. As in, Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher Geralt?”

Jaskier nodded. “The same. He—he _can_ _’t_. This is impossible. Something has to be wrong!”

Yennefer shook her head. “No, it’s. You’re definitely pregnant, Jaskier. There’s no argument, there. This is tough, I understand, but—”

Jaskier just sighed again, loudly, and cut Yennefer off. He fell back into his chair, looking defeated. He looked confused. This was a lot of news to take in, and he didn’t know how to take it in. He was right; this shouldn’t have been possible, and yet it clearly was. Jaskier was pregnant, and somehow, Geralt was the father. There were no other options. Geralt was the _only_ alpha Jaskier had slept with in recent memory. The timing was right. And it all led to one thing—the impossible had clearly happened.

“You can’t tell him,” Jaskier said, suddenly jumping back up to his feet. “If you see him, he can’t know. He _can_ _’t_.”

Yennefer looked at Jaskier for a long time. She wanted to argue. This was exactly the sort of thing that Geralt should know, but Jaskier seemed intent on this decision. Geralt couldn’t know, because if he knew, Jaskier had no way of knowing what would happen. He couldn’t take the rejection of Geralt heard that and screamed at him, blamed him, and decided the child wasn’t his. Geralt would know better than anyone that he couldn’t have children. Jaskier claiming that it was his child was just a fast track to looking like a desperate whore who couldn’t get enough after one heat together. Yennefer could at least understand the concern.

She wouldn’t tell Geralt, should she see him. She would at least offer Jaskier her assistance. It wouldn’t always be here—she didn’t intend to stay in one place for too long—but if he found her, or if he needed _help_ , she’d be around to give whatever help she could. It was the least she could to. In reality, it was far _more_ than she ever had to do, but she wanted to. While no miracle seemed to have presented itself yet to make her childbearing years return, she could at least yelp Jaskier through his. For all she knew, she might even enjoy it.

**Author's Note:**

> 𓆏 Froge Bounces 𓆏  
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> 


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